


Wind Under the Door

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [12]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: This was one of those where I wrote it as an experiment, playing with poetry and expressing emotions without the characters saying what they are feeling in so many words.Minor edits.





	Wind Under the Door

_Here is no water but only rock_  
Rock and no water and the sandy road  
The road winding above among the mountains  
Which are mountains of rock without water 

_If there were water we should stop and drink_  
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think  
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand  
If there were only water amongst the rock

_Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit  
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit _

* * *

"I don't understand Shakespeare," Deanna said.

Jean-Luc, immersed in thoughts of the play, almost stopped walking. "You appeared to enjoy it."

"I enjoyed it because you did, and the players did. But the language. . . ."

He tried not to feel disappointment. It didn't help; as always, she sensed it. She shook her head, saying nothing more. She even forgot herself and took his arm for a few seconds before resuming their professional distance for the remainder of the journey to their quarters.

They got ready for bed in silence. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing, again deep in thought.

Deanna wore one of his old shirts, a brown short-sleeved one that had seen better days. She settled next to him cross-legged and sank into a meditative state; he recognized the serene expression that settled on her face. Her beautiful face, one he'd spent so little time looking at all those years, and so much time looking at over the past months.

And not for the first time, he wondered -- what good fortune had brought her here?

He climbed in under the covers and lay on his back looking at the stars, as arranged in the night skies of the planet they were surveying. Wanting to touch Deanna, wanting to hold her, but not wanting to disturb her meditation, he closed his eyes and thought instead of Lear, of his daughters, of love and devotion and everything that complicated it. Of communication and miscommunication. Of blindness.

Of suffering.

The whispers of the Borg always swirled in when he thought of pain. Associations, his counselor would say. The mind forms them constantly. The greater the sensation, the more indelibly association is pressed upon the memory, the harder it is to banish it completely and cease reacting to it.

Suffering, and pain -- how often he'd chosen them over the compromise of principles he would not be swayed from keeping.

How often Deanna had come to him in the darkest times he'd been through, looked at him with eloquent eyes, and led him -- no, walked beside him. She never led unless she had to, as a counselor. She walked with him, toward sanity.

Doing her duty, she said. Why was it so difficult, then, for him to see it as such?

 

* * *

 

 _Who is the third who walks always beside you?_  
When I count, there are only you and I together  
But when I look ahead up the white road  
There is always another one walking beside you  
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  
I do not know whether a man or a woman  
\-- But who is that on the other side of you?

 

* * *

 

The play had brought about this train of thought. The emotional reaction. There must be something, some connection he hadn't yet recognized.

Lear had, by the end of the play, at last seen that his two older daughters who confessed their love verbally did love him, but not so unconditionally as Cordelia -- the youngest, who remained unmarried, who spoke little but devoted herself to her father. Who even when he reviled her, disowned her, went mad, wandered in the rain, and made himself wholly unlovable -- even then, she loved him. Not judging or becoming angry. Accepting him regardless of what he did to her, or to himself.

It was the duty of a counselor to help one come to a point of acceptance of whatever trouble brought about the need for counseling. He'd had counseling many times over the years, by many counselors. Deanna had been the first Betazoid, the first empath, however. There was a drastic difference between pre-Deanna counseling and post. No doubt due to the fact that she could sense when to press forward, when to pause, when to speak, when to react. Guided by her training in psychology, she could use her empathy to easily manipulate anyone. Yet she rarely manipulated.

Above all else, she wanted him to be himself. She wanted all her patients to accept themselves, to grow to a place where they could fulfill their potential and be happy. It was her job to do it, but it was also her personal wish. It was why she could be so effective.

Whatever one did with all his heart had the most chance of success.

It was why he had such a successful career, he believed. It was why he had ultimately decided to be with Deanna.

The difficulty was, of course, that doing anything with all your heart could end in pain, and often did.

 

* * *

 

 _I can connect_  
Nothing with nothing.  
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.  
My people humble people who expect  
Nothing.'  
la la  
To Carthage then I came  
Burning burning burning burning  
O Lord Thou pluckest me out  
O Lord Thou pluckest  
burning 

 

* * *

 

_assimilate you will comply resistance is_

His chest tight, his lungs locked and unable to draw air, he jolted from the bed at the memory of being trapped in Borg armor, his body crawling with devices, the sensation of the knife in his chest returning --

_I am -- I am -- we are Borg -- I am Jean-Luc -- Locutus -- I am_

His skin cold, his chest hurt, his head throbbed --

_resistanceisresistanceis_

_not too late, Locutus. I want you to come to me. I want you to come freely_

_I am not! NO! Let me go! Please. . . please. . . ._

To think about Deanna as his counselor was to think of the Borg. To think of the Borg was to feel pain. To feel pain was to give pain, to her, again. His hand met cold smoothness -- the table. He leaned on it heavily, trying to breath.

And then came her touch, her hand, ghosting down his arm, making him shiver. She said nothing, and he couldn't look at her. He already knew her eyes would be pooling with tears, glimmering with the agony he felt.

The agony of knowing she had felt it all before, and that he was powerless to prevent inflicting further pain he might yet endure upon her. The torment of knowing that she wanted to be with him regardless of his self-inflicted agonies. The terrors of possibly losing her in the line of duty.

His awareness of the fact that she was every bit as aware of all of it as he, and stayed anyway.

He should not have gone to the play.

 

* * *

 

 _'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me._  
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.  
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.' 

_I think we are in rats' alley  
Where the dead men lost their bones. _

_'What is that noise?'_  
The wind under the door.  
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'  
Nothing again nothing. 

_'Do_  
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember  
'Nothing?' 

 

* * *

 

"Cordelia," he gasped.

Deanna's hands closed around his arm. He couldn't move, couldn't look at her, and stayed propped up on the table, palms flat and fingers splayed, trying to find composure.

"What's wrong?" she asked finally.

"Nothing."

Her fingers tightened. "Nothing." She made it a scold.

"I mean," he muttered, trying to breathe, "that nothing's really wrong. I thought too much, as you say I do. That's all."

"Why did you call me Cordelia?"

"I didn't. I meant. . . ."

She tugged at his arm when he didn't continue. "Come to bed. Do you think I can't tell when you're entertaining memories of the Collective?"

His fingertips pressed harder on the table's surface. She reacted at once to his internal recoil from the confrontational stance she'd taken, by draping her arm over his back and apologizing.

"I'm worried," she murmured, running a hand down his chest. "It's always concerned me that you still react this way to the memories of the Borg. Or are you worrying about me leaving in the morning?"

"Not exactly." Admitting that it had been thoughts of her devotion that had brought this about would only launch a conversation he didn't feel up to having. "There's no sense in worrying about the inevitable. I'm sorry, I'll be better in a minute."

 

* * *

 

 _After the torchlight red on sweaty faces_  
After the frosty silence in the gardens  
After the agony in stony places  
The shouting and the crying  
Prison and place and reverberation  
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains  
He who was living is now dead  
We who were living are now dying

_With a little patience_

 

* * *

He let her guide him with gentle hands to lay on his chest while she removed his shirt and massaged his back. For once, the sure touch of her hands wasn't enough to bring him out of the mood. He rested cheek to knuckles with closed eyes while she worked at him with her strong hands.

" _You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead_ ," he mumbled.

Her hands came to rest over his shoulder blades. She leaned on him, trying to understand. "Is that from the play?"

"Lear, after he went mad. While Cordelia is trying to help him. It's all she ever did, try to help him. All she wanted to do was help. All he gave her in return was pain, insults, disowned her -- "

"Stop it," Deanna spat.

" _Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not_."

"I said _stop_!" she cried. "Please!"

Her weight was gone from his back. He rolled, sat up, and saw that she'd gone into the bathroom; a moment later she returned, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. But the play's the thing. The world's a stage. . . . Lear could be him. Cordelia would never leave Lear, she would die in the end, never forsaking her love for him. No matter how much he didn't deserve her love.

Her eyes blazed at him. So he let it go, and bowed his head to wait for her forgiveness. If there ever was anything he could count on from her, it would be that.

"I hate it when you get like this," she blurted. The bed moved, and her arm went through his. "Jean-Luc. . . ."

The plea twisted the knife. " _We two alone will sing like birds i' the' cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, and ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live, and pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too -- who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out -- and take upon 's the mystery of things, as if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out, in a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones, that ebb and flow by th' moon_." He put an arm around her, then the other, pulling her close against his chest. Her hair felt silky-warm against his face. " _Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, and fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; the good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell, ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first._ "

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"What don't you understand?"

"I can sort out the beginning of it. Talking about and with other people who don't know any better, the gilded butterflies and people too caught up in politics. Indulge others, because we alone know what really matters. But what sacrifices, what do gods have to do with it -- what's a brand?"

"Throwing incense -- burning incense was a form of worship. It means the gods themselves recognize the sacrifices Lear and Cordelia make for their love and celebrate with them. Brand is short for firebrand, like a torch. Lear means that anyone wanting to part them will have to use a miraculous firebrand, divine means, to drive them apart like men with firebrands once drove foxes. Essentially, it means only death will part them."

"But they both die."

"That happens a lot in romantic literature."

"But it's not romantic, she's his daughter."

"Romantic, in the broader sense of the word. It's been applied to certain forms of nineteenth century music, a type of literature -- usually in the broadest sense it applies to anything with the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized. In this case, the relationship between Lear and Cordelia symbolizes sacrificial, unconditional love -- she forgives all, demands nothing. She pours herself out in hopes of helping him. He is so typically human that he sees none of it at first -- he had to go insane to finally see what he had ignored before."

Deanna's forehead bumped his shoulder. She pondered; she was never so still as when she thought hard about something she saw as foreign. Shakespeare was that, but he knew it was a language barrier -- archaic forms of English weren't something they taught at the Academy. There were translations, but to his way of thinking, the rendering of classic literature into modern language took too much meaning from it. Metaphors and references built too much of the meaning into the story; it became a different story when removed from its original wording.

"Goneril and Regan betrayed him," she said slowly. "They weren't capable of the same sort of sacrifice as Cordelia. Is that what you're saying? That Cordelia was willing to die for him, so her love was superior?"

"No, God, no -- the greater sacrifice was that Cordelia was willing to _live_ for him. Even when he tried to drive her away, she would not leave. Even when he became a madman, forgot who she was -- "

"Why are you dying inside to think of this?" Deanna's arms went around him. "Why does the play hurt you? You said before we went to see it that it was always one of your favorites, because you thought it was one of Shakespeare's more complex works. Why would you intentionally inflict this on yourself?"

"Because good literature always lays bare the truth. Because it always tells us something we need to know about ourselves. And great literature -- it means different things to different people, or different things at different stages of personal growth. I could always appreciate Lear as a literary masterpiece. I could appreciate it as a statement of the nature of the ideal form of sacrificial love. My mind could find symbols and meanings, appreciate the nuances of the interplay between the characters. . . . But this was the first time it spoke so forcefully to my heart."

"Is that all that prompted this? The play?"

He pulled her half in his lap. His fingers played in her hair, running the length of it, his hand moving back up to repeat the gesture again and again. The perfume she wore had been a gift. Under the old shirt, he could feel the sharp pendant against his chest -- the silver swan pendant he'd given her.

Thankfully, she let him hold her that way for a long time. She didn't question again. They settled in for the night and still he couldn't quite breathe right, still he needed to feel her close -- she rested on him, her head on his chest, his arms around her while she slept. While she snored he returned to the melancholy he'd gradually set aside.

 

* * *

 

 _What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow_  
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,  
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only  
There is shadow under this red rock,  
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  
And I will show you something different from either  
Your shadow at morning striding behind you  
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

 

* * *

She woke him with such a kiss that he responded before he thought about it -- no doubt her intent. She applied herself to making his body burn and soar, and succeeded with her usual proficiency, leaving him to hold her afterward as she panted with him, slightly out of rhythm.

"I love you," he said, knowing it sounded more like a statement of mourning.

Deanna slid out of bed. "It won't be long. I'll be back before you know it. You'll wonder why you bothered to worry."

He rose and they prepared together to face the day, in uniform, to breakfast, and finally stood facing each other, officers both.

It was too difficult.

He touched her cheek, sighing, loving her this way too -- the officer who had followed him through more danger than most people lived in an entire lifetime. An officer who could do anything, be anything, because she wanted to be an officer. An officer he hadn't truly appreciated as such until he recognized the truth, where it lay beneath the soft facade of the counselor. 

The separation of roles was impossible, at this point, because he no longer knew where one motivation ended and the other began. She had accepted this mission -- was it out of a sense of duty to him, the fleet, her principles? Was it out of a need to impress skeptics that she could handle this? Was it out of a need to prove to herself that she could? Perhaps all of these things. Perhaps one. It didn't matter.

What mattered -- his officer would be gone, deep undercover, far from him -- out of his reach, out of his ability to intervene on her behalf in any capacity. She would be taking with her the woman he loved.

He couldn't be sure where his own pain began and ended. This was an officer of long standing, one of whom he'd always been fond, one who had proven to be a dear friend and consolation when he needed it. One who had pulled him from the brink of self-annihilation.

And on another level, it felt like watching Meribor and Batai leaving home -- like a parent. That component existed with his crew sometimes, especially with those he attempted to help advance. She was that, too.

"Commander," he said, unable to voice any of what he felt.

"Captain," she replied, letting go of his hand. She picked up the rucksack that would accompany her as far as the starbase, where she would be transformed into a Romulan. As if knowing that he would come undone if she did anything else, she turned and left the room.

Immediately, everything in him sprang after her -- everything but his body.

 _{I love you, too. I'll come home._ }

 _{If we ever have children_ _I want to name one of our daughters Cordelia_.}

She didn't respond. He stood, unmoving, unwilling to take the chance that a movement might break him.

Then, when he thought she surely must have passed out of range, the response. { _We'll do that, then. Take care of yourself. No depression, no deep thoughts. And stay out of the Shakespeare while I'm gone._ }

He smiled. Turning, he looked out at the stars. He saw the flare of the shuttle's engines as it left the ship on the appropriate heading -- she traveled alone, now that she'd completed her pilot certification, and as he watched, the shuttle performed a neat Immelmann, then another, before passing out of sight.

Swan in flight.

"Cordelia," he said, taking a step toward the door. "After her mother."

He could keep up a good face as he went to the bridge. In his chair, he could be the captain. But he couldn't set aside the gnawing, growing ache in his chest as she drew further and further away -- he expected it. Accepted it.

It was the nature of man, to fear, and to dare anyway. He would dare. To do otherwise would be unworthy -- he could learn from the mistakes of King Lear. He could accept Cordelia for what she was, before it was too late.

"The play's the thing," he whispered as he entered his ready room. "Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king." He stopped at his desk and picked up the chain lying on its otherwise-bare surface. The silver chain, upon which the swan pendant hung. She must have come up here before departing, to leave the necklace in his keeping. He dangled it, letting the swan twist and turn in the air.

This wasn't a Shakespeare tragedy. She would return. But still, the fear.

 

* * *

 

 _My friend, blood shaking my heart_  
The awful daring of a moment's surrender  
Which an age of prudence can never retract  
By this, and this only, we have existed  
Which is not to be found in our obituaries  
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider  
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor  
In our empty rooms

 

* * *

 

_The segments of poem are from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.  
Quotations Jean-Luc makes are from Shakespeare, as noted._


End file.
